


Days Like These

by neevebrody



Category: Dawson's Creek, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Crossdressing, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-25 00:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fit around his waist isn't breathlessly tight and as he turns to look over his shoulder into the mirror, even his ass looks hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Like These

Because it sticks when it rains, Brendan gives the apartment door a nudge with his hip, firmly and finally shutting him away from one of _those days_. He drops everything – keys, coat, briefcase full of work he grudgingly agreed to bring home – and wishes he could leave the rest of it right there as well. Including his lunch with Freya at Euripides where they got his order wrong, again, and overcharged him to boot, and Freya paying the tab anyway because she didn't want a scene. Just leave it all in damp little puddles at his feet, shrug it off before he moves another muscle. _Yeah, Dean, good luck with that_.

The den is quiet as he walks by on his way to the kitchen, but by the time he gets the refrigerator door open, he hears Vince comes in behind him. He looks comfortable in his bare feet, jeans and t-shirt. Brendan grabs a beer but doesn’t say anything, just tugs at the knot of his tie. It hasn’t been a day for smiling and if he tries it now, it’ll just feel like it belongs on someone else’s face, so he twists off the cap like he means it and turns the beer up for a couple of long pulls. It’s cold and it’s good and it’s the best part of the day so far – not counting that bit of slap and tickle before breakfast, but Vince was going to be late to class so even that had left him somewhat unsatisfied and frustrated from the get go.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Bren, but you look like hell.”

Brendan cuts Vince a sharp glance and takes another swallow. “Thanks,” he says, pulling at his tie again. “I can’t tell you how much that helps.”

What would really help is for Vince to snug up close, just for a minute, just until Brendan can get a couple of deep calming breaths, drink in Vincent’s spicy scent and feel the strength in those arms. Then if Vince would kiss him – slow at first, to melt some of this fucking tension. Kisses that say you’re home, you’re safe, you’re with me. Then rougher, relentless, tongue teasing until he's breathless and more than willing to shed the rest of the day like a snake sloughing off his skin. Willing to hang on as Vince whispers all the things he wants to do – dirty, filthy words that glow inside him like molten fire.

But Vince isn’t doing any of that... and Brendan’s not asking him to. He does think about it, then thinks again, finishes his beer and looks up at Vince through eyes that feel ten years older.

Finally, Vince reaches for him, running his hand along the material of Brendan’s jacket, up to his shoulder where he lets it rest. “I’m guessing tough day...”

“No shit,” Brendan says, already thinking about another beer. His eyes rest on Vince's mouth, wishing it was closer, wanting to feel it on his. And there's nothing stopping him from leaning in and kissing Vince himself, it's just… He just needs a minute. After all, he can handle a little ol' nerve-pinching, sphincter-clenching, lost-data-headache-inducing day served up by Satan and all his minions. Can’t he?

And while he's busy convincing himself, Vincent moves closer and kisses his cheek. His cheek!

“Why don’t you go change," he says softly. "Have a shower—I'll make dinner. You want another beer?”

It’s not exactly filthy, but it is Vince’s voice - low and shadowy - and it still wraps around him like smoke, making Brendan lean into it. And, Jesus, Vince smells good. What the hell did he do before this? His eyelids flutter just a little when Vince kisses him again before pushing another cold beer into his hand. A quick but fond peck that leaves room for wanting more.

“Go on, take your time.”

When Vince lets go, Brendan thinks once more about just bending him over the table. But what he does instead is take the beer, whip the tie from around his neck, and head for the hallway, stopping halfway down, expecting Vince to call him back or come up behind, but he doesn’t.

In their bedroom, Brendan toes off his shoes and hangs his jacket and pants in the closet. After stripping off his shirt, he stuffs it in the dry cleaning bag since there's a bit of what he didn't order for lunch dribbled down the front. The bag is full and he tosses it over by the door so that he won't forget about it, or so Vince will see it and maybe drop it off for him.

Ten minutes later, he’s back in the same spot rubbing a towel over his damp hair. That's when he first notices the box – the small red lacquer box sitting in the center of the bed. The bed's still unmade from the morning so maybe that’s why he missed it before, or maybe it's the white-hot whatever between his eyes blurring out anything right in front of him. The first beer helped a little, so he twists the top off the second and gives it a chance for more of the same. Buck naked, he sits down on the edge of the bed and stares at the box as if it's just spoken to him in a foreign language. It’s tied with a white frou-frou bow – store wrapped, nothing Vince would do himself and, okay, his curiosity is definitely up, along with a bit of uncertainty as well as he searches that repository of a brain of his for some significance. Satisfied he hasn’t missed anything important, he sets down his beer and picks up the box.

After wrangling the bow free and finally getting the box open, he finds a small white card right on top covered with Vincent’s neat block printing: “Saw these - looked like you. Have fun!”

Beneath the card there's a small satin draw-string bag. His heart pounding and a small measure of his annoyance with Vince quickly disappearing – _oh yes, because it's Vince's fault he didn't anticipate your needs_ – Brendan opens the bag. Inside is a pair of stockings, like pantyhose but much more sheer. They feel like nothing at all; the only texture is the fishnet design woven into them.

Brendan worries his bottom lip and holds them a long moment before sliding his hand inside the silky black-on-black softness. They feel good against his skin, decadent and sexy. He catches himself looking around for Vince, but he can still hear him in the kitchen. Does Vince mean for him to… A tiny smile curls the corner of his mouth... have fun...

Gathering one leg in his hands down to the ankle, he carefully slips his foot inside then draws the stocking up over his calf, loving the stretch and the way it molds to his leg. These are different from his plain fishnets – those fit loosely and need garters to hold them up, and that's fine, but this... he knows just what this is.

He repeats the action with the other leg; watching the material stretch and give new definition to the curve of his muscles, making the dark hair all but disappear beneath the sheer black pattern. When he stands up, he pulls them the rest of the way, taking care with his balls and half-hard dick. The fit around his waist isn't breathlessly tight and as he turns to look over his shoulder into the mirror, even his ass looks hot.

Actually, there's enough room so he can get his hand down the front and he wonders for half a second if they're made for a man. Just to get a better look, he pulls up the chair Vince uses for a closet and sits down in front of the mirror. The slow crossing and uncrossing of his legs leaves a silky whisper in the air and quickens his pulse. He stares longingly at the shape of his calves and the slender line of his foot. Christ, what a turn-on.

Time was, a thought like that would make him blush madly and fear for his sanity. Now, it sends something hot racing to the root of his mostly-hard dick. He reaches inside and strokes it, watching the pattern mold over his hand and the head of his cock, thinks about Vince watching, thinks about Vince telling him how he looks, almost able to feel the heat of the words in his ears.

Rubbing his free hand over his chest, he spreads his legs a little, letting the tug of the stockings add extra friction as he pushes into the captive heat. He toys with his stiff nipple and wants Vincent’s tongue there, lets his head loll back as the sensation covers him with goosebumps.

Damn, this is good; he can come like this, but he wants more. He gets up and moves to the bed, brushing the box aside to settle down on his stomach, one leg drawn up so his ass is in the air. He slips his hand over the fish-netted curve of his hip and knows right away what he really wants.

Licking his fingers first, he reaches back inside the panty to get to his hole. Working his hips, dick rubbing against the hose and the bed, he circles the puckered skin, then dips inside – just enough to send another shudder through him – driving away some of the remnants of his day like snuffing out a candle.

Back inside, two fingers and further this time, hips still moving. He’s getting so close, and, Christ, this is just what he needs, to work it out by himself... be as dirty as he wants... fucking himself, working his cock against the delicious friction of the stockings. Sweat beads at his temples and across his shoulders, hot and sticky in the crease behind his knees, writhing on sheets that smell like Vince.

Every sensation is magnified, stuck to him like wet paper, waiting. Waiting for another breath... for that next thrust of fingers to push him over, and then he senses something different – a ripple in the air. Vince is there, and that almost makes Brendan shoot then and there.

“God damn, Bren...”

“Fuck,” he grits out, because... fuck, he’s a cockhair from coming and now not knowing whether Vince will touch him or just keep talking has put his rhythm off.

“Look at you...” The bed dips just like the voice. He doesn't even have to think about it. He knows Vince is naked and hard.

“God, you look amazing,” Vince says, running his hand up the back of Brendan’s thigh.

The responding shiver heightens the tight coil of urgency Brendan feels in his balls.

“I see you found your present,” Vince husks, sliding his knee up between Brendan’s legs, nudging Brendan’s hand where he’s still fucking himself, pressing in, and making stars blink behind Brendan's eyelids.

“That’s it..." Vince's arm curls around Brendan, his hot, dirty mouth at Brendan’s ear. “Stretch it good for me...”

Every word sears another jolt through him, all going to the same spot, where his cock is pressed into the mattress, where the friction and the dark grip of Vincent’s voice has him right there - right there.

“‘Cause I want to fuck you... Slam that hole good... just the way you like it...”

“Fuck, yes…” The words rush out all at once with Brendan's need to finally take a breath.

Then the knee edges Brendan’s balls with just enough pressure and he’s gone... thinking of Vince taking him, sliding inside him in one go, maybe even while he’s still coming into the sheets... pounding his ass so hard Brendan won't have a chance to come down, so hard Vince will have to come too - a hot rush that’ll leave them collapsed in a heap and out cold for hours. That's what he thinks about while his hips jerk and he comes all over the stockings and the last shred of the day's irritations are blown away. So good… so goddamn good.

So good he can barely breathe out Vince's name as he takes his hand away to grip the sheet, expecting his lover to waste no time. But Vince is still talking... telling him how hard he is and how bad he needs Brendan, and Brendan lets it all wash over him as he starts to come down. So many words… He hears them. He doesn't doubt them anymore.

Finally, thank fuck, Vince begins to peel the stockings away from Brendan’s hips. Brendan raises his ass to make it easier. He grimaces in a kind of pleasure-pain as his cock meets the cool swirl of air, and even knowing what’s coming next, the sharp tip of Vincent’s tongue dancing around his entrance still catches Brendan's breath, damming it up at the back of his throat.

Vince teases – first flicking, then pressing the warm flat of his tongue down and over the sensitive flesh. It's shameless and it centers a pit of wanton need in Brendan’s gut that has him nearly growling from wanting more. And Vince gives it to him; body half covering Brendan, hands spreading him apart, making his own needy sounds. It all holds Brendan in some kind of recalcitrant submission, not quite ready to let go of the high.

“Mmmm, now it's my turn,” Vince whispers. Is that a desire or a warning? And then Vince's “...gonna fuck you...” makes Brendan's hole quiver because, dear god, he wants it.

Vince's thumb presses past the tight, twitching muscle, making Brendan wait, tongue flicking at the apex of Brendan’s crack at the same time - a move that clears away the dam and breaks down the last barrier to Brendan begging.

“Do it, Vince... Jesus fuck, do it now...”

And still Vince takes his time, licking wet circles that feel like electric sparks while he slips the hose down Brendan's legs, just as slowly and seductively as Brendan had put them on. Down until Brendan can finally wiggle one foot free.

Then Vince pulls back and drags Brendan with him, on their sides so they're spooned together. Brendan's thigh trembles where he holds it, waiting for Vince to get ready. He hears the sharp snap of the lube cap right before Vince presses the blunt tip of his cock _there_. There where it's still wet from Vince's tongue, slipping just inside, past the resistance, there where it leaves Brendan vibrating with the need to feel Vince… all the way. Until Vince grabs Brendan's leg, pulling it back, taking the pressure off , and gives Brendan one, two seconds to relax before pushing his length inside.

That rakes a moan from Brendan. Rough and loud and almost lost amid the lips and teeth at his shoulder, and the blistering, "…god, Bren… so fucking tight…"

With his forehead buried in the crook of Brendan's neck, Vince works up a rhythm. Long in and out strokes that move quickly to the sharp slap of skin and soft cupping sounds, Vince grunting out his effort as he fucks. And somehow, Brendan manages to get an arm around Vincent's shoulder, holding on to all that strength as he pushes back into the thrusts, getting all of Vince he can until he starts to feel it in his balls again – that little spiral of something working its way to another orgasm if Vince can hold out.

Brendan lifts Vincent's head and turns so that their mouths are almost touching. He listens to Vince tell him how good it is, the words ghosted out over Brendan's skin, and all Brendan can do is nod because he can't think of anything to say to that look in Vince's eyes… that look like he's going to go off any second, like he'd be lost without this, without Brendan. And now, by god, Brendan wants that kiss. Heart pounding, his brain in an upward spiral, feeling like he'll explode if he doesn't, Brendan leans in and takes it – wet and sloppy and hot as fuck.

The kiss has its own urgency and forces Vince to show his; he picks up his pace, hand moving to Brendan's cock, stripping it hot and fast, leaving Brendan barely on the edge of sanity. It's not long before the corners of his vision start to close in on him and the room begins a whirling dance. Brendan holds his breath, pants, then holds it again… "God, Vince… I'm…"

He jerks again with a sawed-off version of his first orgasm, though it still tingles all the way out to his extremities. Arching into it, he's super aware of everything… especially Vince – the tightening muscles, the way his hair sticks to his cheek when they put their heads together, the blistering pads of Vincent's fingertips pressing into Brendan's flesh like he owns it.

Aware of this man who knows him like no one else, this man who's wrapped around every thought and action, this man Brendan loves with everything that he is or ever will be. Every inch of this man, inside Brendan, as if they share the same skin for one transitory blip in time amid Vince's stuttering hips and Brendan's name tattooed into his shoulder with teeth and saliva. That place where they are one fire, one breath, one fleeting…

And then it's gone. Back to two sets of limbs struggling to hold on, wanting the feeling to go on forever. Two hearts rescued from the brink, desperate for some promise that this will never change. Two wills returned to the reality of steamy, sweat-slick skin, come stained sheets, and dinner waiting in the kitchen. To anchoring kisses and the gentle slide of Vince slipping free. To the heavy warmth of arms surrounding him and the deep siren call of the shadowy abyss known as totally and blissfully fucked out.

Feeling as if he'd swam up from a dream, Brendan reaches back, limp grip on Vincent's thigh, hanging on so he can take Vince with him. Vince collapses against him, brushes his lips across the still-throbbing pulse at Brendan's neck, as if giving his silent assent.

"Thanks," Brendan mumbles on their way down. He doesn't say why… he doesn't have to.


End file.
